


Tethered

by nokkakona



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Flower Imagery, M/M, Michael Being A Dick, Prophets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:05:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nokkakona/pseuds/nokkakona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester returns from war with a wheelchair and hallucinations. Little does he know that he's been chosen by God to read His word as the next prophet. His guardian archangel, however, is less than willing to take on a Prophet after so many years of staying out of heaven - even if he's been hearing Dean's prayers ever since the kid learned how to talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue

_The dog had been dead so long that the skin around its mouth had begun to split into a morbid grin. Even from twenty meters away, his cheek sticking to the sand, Dean could just make out the reflective glint around its neck: a collar._

_“Come on, Winchester, stay with me.”_

_Vaguely he registered the muffle of voices around him and the shadows that blocked out the hot Afghanistan sun; but even in the shade, he was burning._

_“Private! Lift his legs, or he’ll go into shock.”_

_“I can’t, doc!”_

_Hands slick with blood tore away his shirt but he didn’t feel it; he only felt what he saw and all he saw was that damn dog, lying there all nice and dead, not having to worry about things like the words Dean heard next._

_“Why the hell not?”_

_“He ain’t got no legs!”_

Act I - Mind

Being an angel came with its perks - awesome powers, immortality, candy and sex whenever he desired them - but it also had its downfalls. For Gabriel, the biggest downfall was the prayers.  Thousands upon thousands of human voices reaching into his head, begging for all the things Gabriel could never give them: strength, protection, and the worst of all, for messages to be safely delivered to God.

It was ironic - ironic that the angel of communication, who was once the best angel to pray to for these things, was actually the worst; and ironic that no matter how desperately Gabriel had searched for God in those eons when he had one foot in heaven and one foot on Earth, never straying close enough to either to consider one or the other home, he had never been able to find him. At moments like these, when prayers slipped through the mental block he had erected ever since he cut himself off from heaven, Loki’s targets were often very specific; parents who had left their children, alcoholic fathers, abusive mothers. The kind of person he could use as a substitute.

Of course, starting shit and killing people only got you so far. No matter how many people he exacted revenge upon, the voices never went away. They were always there, a dull and desperate jumble in the back of his head that got more and more muffled with every decade that passed. But every once in a while, one voice would break through - someone whose prayers were filled with the worst kinds of pain; someone who truly needed the help of an archangel.

_‘Gabriel?’_

When he first heard that one little word, he was in Germany. He only remembered the place because of what he’d been doing there at the time: facing an Asgardian beast native to those parts who had been terrorizing a local village. It wasn’t exactly his style, but the beast was sentient enough to be a target for revenge. When Gabriel had _just stopped_ in the middle of combat, the creature had taken the opportunity to slash a line down the side of his vessel. Being a mark from an otherworldly creature, it had never fully faded.

It was the first scar Dean gave him.

Little Dean couldn’t have been more than four when he carved his way into Gabriel’s head. Gabriel had always had a soft spot for kids because they were everything he couldn’t be - young again, naïve again, careless again - but Dean was different. He never asked to be helped; only to help others: his little brother Sammy who stayed up all night crying; his mom who sometimes did the same; and his dad buried six feet underground who’d never seen Dean’s last T-Ball game. ‘ _We won, too. Can you tell him for me, Gabriel? Tell daddy?_

After that first prayer, he’d limped back to Iceland with two things on his mind: sugar and vengeance. A few days later, the boss who had fired Dean’s mom spontaneously combusted in the middle of a parking lot. He figured that was the end of it; after all, the last thing he wanted was for some brat to take centre stage in his head. He refortified his walls and went back to being bitter and alone.

Only the prayers kept coming. They showed up in bedrooms, at movies, in pockets of Gabriel’s own little reality - whenever Dean needed help, he prayed; and Gabriel always heard him.

‘ _Sammy sleeps with me now so he doesn’t cry so much. Maybe you could tell daddy that Sammy’s still sad, though, because I don’t want him to think Sammy doesn’t care anymore.’_

_‘Mommy’s parents came today. They were really mean to her. Can you make them happier so they don’t have to be so angry all the time?’_

‘ _Mom says I have to live somewhere else for a while. She says Sam might not be able to stay with me. He's 2 and Mom says he doesn't understand but I don't understand either. Please, please, please let me stay with Sam!_ ’

No matter how long he meditated, how many pints of Asgardian ale he threw back, how many witches he commissioned with expensive promises of baby skulls and demon blood, Dean was always there. His prayers became a regular correspondence of pain, misery, and suffering that filled Gabriel with a terrifyingly angelic, all-consuming desire to _protect_.

So naturally, when Dean stopped praying without warning, Gabriel worried. The prayers were the only connection  he had to the kid - or rather, the adult that the kid had become. Normally he’d have assumed the best, that maybe Dean was just tied up somewhere or had had a crisis of faith, but after the last prayer, Gabriel had reason for concern.

_‘I dunno how good these prayers are gonna do me now, so I figure this might be the last one for a while. I’ve just… well, I’ve just joined the military, I guess. I’m going on my first tour in a month. Wish me luck. Or don’t.’_

There were a multitude of things Gabriel could have done. He could have tormented the president into peace talks or turned all the gunpowder in the world into fun dip or kidnapped Dean and forced him to live out the rest of his life safe and sound in an episode of Full House. But he didn’t do any of those things. No, his plan was much better. He was going to do exactly what he had been doing ever since he skipped out on heaven all those years ago: absolutely nothing.

He went back to his normal life for a while. Without Dean’s prayers as a constant reminder of where he had come from and what he was created to do, he didn’t have to worry or smile or feel very much at all. Kali was glad to have her partner in crime and vaguely criminal sex back in the game. Thor was a little annoyed and only caused three major storms along the East Coast. The rest of the gods ignored him for the most part, as they had been doing ever since that little incident with Baldur. Everything was the way it was before 1983 - fun, relaxing, bloody.

So naturally, seven years later, it all came to an end.

It was a sunny morning in May when Gabriel was ripped out of his vessel and dragged, kicking and cursing, back through the gates of heaven. Even though it _looked_ like Iceland, Gabriel knew it wasn’t. There was a stinging and burning at the centre of his grace and each prick upon its numb surface told him that there was an angel nearby; and right now, he was surrounded.

Once the fog over his many eyes lifted, he tried to move, but found that he couldn’t. His wings were glued together with a sticky spiritual substance he didn’t recognise. He did recognise his surroundings, however; a yellow field encircled by jagged, rocky hills, tangled in a web of flowers and wet dirt. He knew the image - a valley in Iceland, created specially by Michael as a gift to Lucifer - and he knew that it wasn’t there to trick him. He was an archangel. Beneath the layers of dirt and moth wings that beat in perfect symmetry, he could see what had once been his home.

A moth landed on a Scottish asphodel near Gabriel’s feet. He became impossibly stiller as it began to speak. It said, “Welcome home, Gabriel.”

Gabriel was quiet. Another moth joined it and began searching for nectar. “Those bindings won’t hold forever, Joshua,” it warned.

The first moth paused and then left the flower, fluttering to a stop in mid-air. It vanished, in its place a man with salt-and-pepper hair. Joshua nodded to the second moth, who had also grown a human body, and slowly Gabriel felt the bindings in his wings begin to release. Gabriel helped by violently ripping extending all seven pairs, knocking the littler angel off his feet.

“You can leave now, Samandriel,” said Joshua kindly. Samandriel pursed his lips and vanished.

The pause that followed was brief but potent. Gabriel narrowed his eyes, waiting for some signal that he wasn’t about to be angelically eviscerated, while Joshua studied him quietly. Finally, Joshua spoke. “God has a job for you, brother.”

Gabriel felt the tension in his chest break. He scoffed. “What, no ‘hey, Gabe, how’ve you been while you were gone for a millennia?’”

“I don’t need to ask a question I already have an answer to,” Joshua answered.

It took Gabriel a minute to process his words. “You’ve been _watching_ me?”

“I’ve always known where you are, Gabriel. I merely assumed that you would return home when you were ready.”

The revelation  made Gabriel uncomfortable. “Well, I sense an onslaught of paranoid, sleepless nights. Is there such a thing as an angel restraining order?”

Joshua tilted his head a little. “Sarcasm suits you.”

Gabriel didn’t respond directly. Instead, he decided to address Joshua’s earlier statement. “Just tell me why I’m here so I can tell you it’s a stupid idea and go home.”

Joshua sighed. “You have no idea, do you?”

“Duh.”

“I’m sorry. I assumed you would have felt the tether by now.”

His vision flashed. _Tether?_ “Fallen angels don’t get charges,” he said coldly.

“You did not fall,” Joshua reminded him.

“Fine,” Gabriel snapped. “Angels who go MIA don’t get charges.”

For a moment Joshua was quiet; then he knelt down and gently pried the asphodel out of the dirt. Gabriel stiffened as Joshua approached him, but allowed the gardener to press the flower into his palm. White and delicate petals, typical of flowers in the lily family, tickled his skin. This species, however, did not symbolize the virgin like the one Gabriel had given Mary the night he told her of God’s plans for her - this one was a flower of protection.

“This charge is special,” Joshua murmured.  

Blinking away his initial surprise, Gabriel closed his fist around the asphodel, crushing it. “They’re prophets, they’re all special. Isn’t that kind of the point?”

“Special to you.”

Gabriel snorted. “No one is special to me,” he said scathingly. “And I don’t friggin’ care about Dad’s stupid chosen ones anyway. I’m out of here.” He snapped his wings to his body and spun around.   

“Don’t you want to know his name?” Joshua called after him.

“Nope,” he responded, managing to pop the ‘p’ even without a mouth.

“You only need to know the first name, Gabriel; that, I think, will convince you.” Gabriel ignored him, knowing that he already knew the names of all the prophets and whatever information Joshua was about to give him was old news. But then Joshua said the only name that would make Gabriel stop midflight: “Dean.”

“If you are to take on this charge, you’d better hurry,” Joshua warned.

“Why’s that?”

The angel raised his eyebrows. “Because in six minutes, Dean Winchester is going to be murdered.”


	2. Act II - Body

“I'll give ya $2,000 for it.” The Impala waited cautiously on the pavement of Dean's driveway as Dean looked up at the man with the checkbook in his hands, pen ready and waiting to strike.

“Sounds like a deal,” said Dean. He swore the car deflated.

Brady grinned. “All right! Here ya go, man,” he said, scribbling the numbers onto the pad and tearing it off. The sound made Dean flinch.

Steadfastly refusing to look at the Impala, he took the check and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Uh, keys are in the car,” he said quickly. Brady shook his hand and slid into what was now his ride, but before he turned on the ignition, he glanced back at Dean.

“Thanks, man. I'll take good care of her,” he said solemnly. Dean straightened and gave him a jerky nod. Brady drove away and Dean waited until he was out of sight before slumping over again.

Up the ramp he wheeled himself, bits of gravel sticking to his fingers. It was cooler inside the house but it was always like that; the thermostat was a little too high on the wall for Dean's convenience. He sighed as he rolled past it but didn't attempt to change the standard 61 it read.

Habit drove him into the office. Nowadays, it was where he spent all his time. The armchair in the corner reclined and was easier to pull himself into than his bed and next to it was a mini fridge filled with all his favourite poisons, close enough so that he didn’t have to strain to grab one. Every day he sat at the window, the gun concealed in his jacket pocket, and watched the life that happened outside of it - kids playing in the streets, running and jumping, and new drivers jerking along in their modern cars with untrained feet. He watched the sun rise and the sun set; as he did, he thought about how if he put a bullet in his brain, that sun would keep on rising and falling. It wouldn't mourn the death of an incomplete soldier.

Occasionally his thoughts of mortality would run so deep into his mind that the rest of his senses shut off. He heard nothing and saw nothing. Trapped inside his own mind, he would stare through the window for hours, thinking both a thousand and no thoughts all at once. But today was not one of those days. Today he didn’t have the luxury to let himself go like that.

Around four, he heard the dreaded noise; a knock on the door. He allowed himself a minute to sigh heavily and pinch the bridge of his nose with his fingers before he tore his eyes away from the window, the sudden dissonance creating a pit in his stomach he knew would be there for the rest of the night. But he forced himself to touch the cold metal wheels that had become his legs and roll himself out of his home and into his house, where he opened the front door for his guests.

“Sam. Jess. Hey,” he greeted them smoothly. Like a unit they stepped across the threshold, Sam’s arm wrapped around Jessica’s shoulders protectively. Her belly had bigger since the last time he’d seen her. He reminded himself that it had been almost two months.

“Hey, Dean.” Sam gave him a smile. The smile disappeared when he took of his jacket. “Feels like you have a ghost problem,” he laughed. “Mind if I…?” He gestured toward the thermostat.

Dean licked his lips. “… go ahead.”

Sam spun the dial and then hung up his jacket. “Jess and I brought you some food,” he said. “And, uh, some other stuff.”

“Thanks, Sammy, but I can take care of myself.”

“He knows that. He still worries, though,” Jessica interjected, rubbing Sam’s arm. Dean smiled tightly.

“Hope you brought something good then, coz I’m dry,” he said, gesturing toward the kitchen. The smile returned to Sam’s face.

“The tupperware is out in the car. I’ll go grab it,” Sam said, patting Jessica on the shoulder and rushing back out the door.

There was a pregnant pause. Dean picked at his thumbs and Jessica looked around awkwardly. Finally, she asked, “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Knock yourself out.”

And then she was gone. Sighing deeply, Dean went into the living room to wait for Sam. He shot a longing look at the door to his office and wondered why he hadn’t brought a case of beer out; after all, if ever there was a time where he needed a beer, it was now. After glancing out the window and seeing Sam still rummaging around in the trunk of his car, he shrugged and began rolling toward the door. 

 “Dean?” The sound of Jessica’s voice interrupted him. Spinning around, he gave her a tight, if not confused, smile.  

“Uh- Sam’s still getting the stuff out of the car,” he told her.  

“Actually,” she said, stepping into the middle of the room, “I was looking for you.”

“Yeah?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “You need something?” 

With a smile, she nodded. “Your head on a stick.” Her eyes went black. 

Dean’s heart skipped a beat as his hands snapped to his gun. “No-- it can’t be--”

“Oh, but it is,” she sung.

Backing into the corner, Dean’s fingers finally stopped fumbling and he pointed the gun at a point just over her shoulder. “You can’t be here.”   

Jessica tilted her head. “You know what I am,” she realised with a grin.

“I’ve seen your type before,” he said shortly. He couldn’t hear the quaver in his voice. “In Iraq. Dead men coming to life again. Soldiers acting strangely. And then…” He swallowed hard.  

Jessica’s face twisted into a pout. “So you don’t _really_ know what I am,” she sighed. “For a second there, I hoped you took after your--”

He didn’t let her finish the sentence. He squeezed the trigger but his aim wavered as he remembered that this was Jess - or at least whatever it was, it was in her body. The momentary pause gave her enough time to cross the room and slap the gun out of his hand, her fingers curling around his throat. Desperately he latched onto her arms, trying to pry her away, but the thing in her eyes was stronger than he was.  

Just as the edges of Dean’s vision began to grow black, suddenly, Jessica was on the floor. He blinked and saw a man by the window he didn’t recognise - then he was beside Jessica, something sharp and silver in his hand.

Dean reacted instantly. “Damn it!” he shouted. “She’s pregnant, don’t hurt her!”

The man stared at him incredulously, but his hand loosened on the blade. It vanished into his jacket and suddenly Dean felt an arm wrap around his head, covering his eyes as his skin was covered in something hot and bright.

Jessica screamed. Violently, Dean tried to tear himself out of the man’s grip, but just as before, it was impossible to move. It was only seconds before the white light began to ebb, and then, finally, the man released Dean from his chokehold. Dean tried to open his eyes and shook his head a few times before he realised that his eyes were open; he just wasn’t seeing anything.

_“What did you do?”_

There was a snap. With a blink, he could see again. Instantly, he looked around for Jessica, and to his surprise, he found her lying on the couch, her eyes shut and her mouth hanging open. “Jesus - _tell_ me she’s asleep.” 

“She’ll be fine,” the man said impatiently, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. He shoved him away, but it was like trying to shove the Empire State Building. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded, waving his hands around. “Let’s get shakin’!”  

Dean balked. “I- _no!_ ”

“ _Yes_ , princess,” said the man sharply.  

“Are you _nuts?_ ” he squawked. “Look, you’re crazier than I am if you think I’m going anywhere with _you_ after you just - I don’t know _what_ you just did but - gotta tell the doc these anti-psychotics aren’t working…”

The man made a sound of irritation. “Oh, for-- you’re a _prophet_ , not a lunatic. Look, if you stay here--”

Dean jerked away as the man put a hand on his arm. “Get the fuck off me! I don’t want _your_ help!” he yelped. Hurt briefly flashed across the man’s face.  

With a tight smirk, the expression was gone as soon as it came. The man snapped his fingers. “Your funeral, hopscotch,” he said. Dean opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the strangest thing that had happened that day occurred: before Dean could blink, the man was gone. Just gone. Vanished into thin air.

Dean slumped down in his chair. His shirt was still bunched up on the shoulder where the man had gripped it, so he numbly reached up and smoothed it out as he tried to quantify exactly what had just happened.  Black smoke moving of its own accord, Jessica trying to murder him, and now glowing strangers who disappeared after insisting he was a prophet; he knew what this meant.

“Yep,” he muttered to himself, dropping his head into his hands. “I’m officially nuts.” 

* * *

 

To Dean’s utter dismay, he didn’t have a brain tumour. His brief stay in the hospital was littered with phrases like ‘religious psychosis’ and ‘extended inpatient care’, red lights that signalled to Dean it was time to go home before they decided to not let him leave. Home, as violated as it had been, was still home, and he intended to stay there. Besides, hospital blue wasn’t really his colour.

Once safely tucked away in his office, he tried to revert to his normal schedule of wallowing in alcoholism and Internet porn. He decided that whatever had happened hadn’t really happened at all; he wasn’t a prophet, angels didn’t exist, and the world still sucked.

Believing this was made substantially harder by the fact that the TV kept talking to him.

Between Wiley Coyote telling him he had abandonment issues and Ryan Stiles chipping in with a quip about how even his legs had walked out on him, he had enough to deal with, and it didn’t help that no matter what he did to the blasted thing, it just wouldn’t turn off. Eventually, his neighbours called the cops when, in a fit, he drew his weapon and blasted a hole through the Kansas state governor’s head in the middle of a speech.  After that, the governor went on for twelve solid minutes about how American veterans needed the taxpayers’ money for shrinks before finally ending his speech with a rousing, “And that, kids, is how I met your mother.”  

Surprisingly, it wasn’t being arrested and kept handcuffed to his wheelchair in a hospital for a week that changed his mind. It was Sam.

“Mr. Winchester, you have a visitor,” a nurse announced while he stared out of the window in his room. Looking over to the door, he saw Sam, although the look of anger and indignation he had been expecting to see wasn’t present. On the contrary, his brother looked strangely jubilant.

“Sam?”

“Dean!” A grin split across his face. “Look, everything that you told me? About the demons, about the angels? I believe you.”

Dean did a double take. “Are you… are you high?”

Grinning, Sam tore open the shades. Dean winced and turned away from the light. “Look!” Sam cried, then dragged him closer to the window when Dean didn’t listen to him. Eventually he opened his eyes to see what the fuss was all about; all he saw were two black and white ultrasounds, utterly indistinguishable to anyone who didn’t know what they were looking for.

“Ultrasounds? Dude, come on,” complained Dean, who didn’t know what he was looking for.

Sam shook his head and pushed him closer impatiently. “Look, this one is Amy a week ago. See this whitish spot? That’s her heart. And that…” His finger brushed a black shape next to it, something twice its size, “that’s the tumour.” Briefly, his enthusiasm faltered and he swallowed. But then the grin came back as he pointed at the second film. “Now, this one’s from today. You see her heart? Look next to it.”

Dean huffed. “There’s nothing there. What’s the big…”

And then it hit him.

His jaw dropped. “Holy shit.”

Sam was smiling so hard it looked like he might cry. “There’s something holy going on,” he said, “but I don’t think it’s that.”

* * *

 

Dean missed being able to get down on his knees in front of a bed that didn't belong to him. He’d never been a stranger to it until now; only tonight would have been the first night in a long time that the reason was prayer. 

“Uh…” As he wheeled himself to the edge of his hospital bed, he was struck with the fact that he had no idea what he was doing. Years ago, when prayer came as easy as waking up in the morning, he’d always just said what was on his mind. Now, he couldn’t find the words. “Look. I’ve got no clue in hell what’s going on, all right? Angels? Demons? Prophets? It’s all a little too Steven King for me, but let’s just say I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Whoever you are.”

For a full minute he remained motionless, hoping for anything - a sign, a voice, some kind of angel in a toga to come down and yell at him - but there was only silence. He sighed. “Yeah, all right. Fair enough,” he muttered, unclasping his hands.  

“No offense, kiddo, but you suck at praying.”

Startled, Dean twisted around. His eyes grew wide. “Fuck!”

The man from that night was leaning against the windowsill, his arms crossed and his mouth quirked to the side. “Good suggestion, good suggestion.”

“ _You_ again!”

He waved.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You - who are you?” he demanded.   

The man snorted. “You’re the guy God chose this time around? Jeez, slim pickings.” Dean growled. “Okay, okay. Name’s...” He paused, then sighed. “Just call me Gabriel.”   

“Not helping.”

He sighed with a little more exasperation than was necessary. “All prophets need to be protected. I’m your friggin’ bodyguard. At least until you kick it and some other poor bastard gets the word of God shoved up his holy butt.” 

“Word of God?”

Gabriel lazily waved a hand and something heavy landed in Dean’s lap; the gold-bound letters ‘The Holy Bible’ glittered across the spine. He had to bite the inside of his cheek.

“ _No_ friggin’ way,” he muttered.

“You’re gonna be saying that a lot in the future.”

Suddenly annoyed, Dean picked up the book and slapped it down on the bedside table. “There’s no _way_ I’m a prophet,” he snorted.

“Yeah? You shoulda seen the last guy God picked. Skinny Asian kid. Only thing he wanted to read were his AP Calculus books.”

Dean pulled a face. “All right, let’s just say I am a prophet. Do I get visions or do people just wanna kill me all the time?”

Gabriel looked around thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said finally.

Dean stared. “ _Yes_?” he repeated dubiously.  

“Think Cordelia Chase and the Powers That Be, God being the PTB and you being a poor failing actress or whatever.”

“What’s that make you?”

“Well, I’ve always personally resonated with Lorne…”

“I’m serious.”

“Just call me Angel.” He grinned suddenly. “Archangel, actually.” 

It took Dean a moment to put two and two together. “Oh, no way. You’re _that_ Gabriel?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “No, Gabriel fucking Mann.”

There was a pause. “They get ABC in heaven?” asked Dean finally.

 “You watch Revenge?” Gabriel snickered. Dean wrinkled his nose. “Whatever. Look, you want answers? I can’t give ‘em to you.”

“Why the hell not?” Dean demanded.

“Well, no need to panic or anything, but the place is surrounded by demons.” Gabriel paused for dramatic effect. Dean looked stupidly around the room. “We’ve gotta go. _Now_.”

“Go where?” Dean asked, but before he got an answer, Gabriel’s fingers touched his forehead and in under a blink of an eye, he was no longer in the hospital. Disoriented, he snapped at Gabriel, “Okay, buddy, we have _got_ to talk about the zapping thing--” but when he saw where he was, the words slipped away.

He was no historian, but wherever Gabriel had taken him looked like something straight out of a Shakespeare novel - or rather, it would have if there wasn’t a giant hole in the ceiling through which an endless strip pole extended. People and non-people in various states of intoxication chattered and roared and drank around them and not one of them seemed to care that two men had just appeared out of nowhere in the middle of what Dean’s inner monologue was increasingly referring to as a stripper tavern. Busy as he was trying to pretend like none of this was happening, he almost missed the stag fighting its way through the crowd toward them.

“Careful, Loki. Your brother is heading this way,” it said. It was standing on two legs and that the antlers on its still very stag-like face were, in fact, two miniature trees. Dean gawked.

Gabriel opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the crowd parted and a terrifyingly large man appeared from behind the stag-man, seizing a fistful of Gabriel’s hair. “LOKI!” he roared, then broke into a thunderous fit of coughs. “YOU ARE LATE,” he sputtered loudly.

“Calm your thunder tits, Thor, it’s only been fifty years,” said Gabriel irately as if blood wasn’t leaking down the side of his forehead. The large man bared his teeth, clearly about to start punching things when he spotted Dean. His yellow eyes bulged. “Oh, yeah, by the way, this is Dean.”

“DEAN?” Thor repeated at the same time Dean squawked, “ _Thor_?”

Thankfully, before anything bad could happen, a black-haired woman slithered into the space between Thor and Gabriel, pushing them apart. “You’ll kill the plants with all your thundering and fighting,” she sighed.

“BUGGER THE - bugger the plants!” The look of terrifying displeasure on ‘Thor’s face was gone, replaced by an equally terrifying jubilance. “Don’t you know who this is, Sif? This is my brother’s tormentor!” 

Sif’s eyes slid over to Dean, examining him; then, she walked toward him, bringing with her the stench of alcohol. Dean had to stifle a cough. “I thought he’d be taller.”

 He sat up straighter as she circled him, then flinched as she dragged a finger down his back. “Though he’s very...” She bent over the back of his wheelchair and slid her hands down to his waist. “Slender.”

He jerked away. “Always with the hips, Sif,” said Gabriel, shaking his head slightly.

“Well, you know what they say about a man with slender hips,” Sif smirked. “Higher fertility.”

Gabriel laughed. “Does that mean higher sex drive, too? Because I could totally see that applying to me.” With a wink aimed at Dean, he crossed the room. Desperate to not be left alone, Dean hurried after him toward a long table towering with food. Thor took a seat at the head of the table. Gabriel sat next to him, swiping a slice of meat out of his hands as he did so. Thor snatched after it angrily.

“Wife! Tormentor! Come sit!” Thor thundered as Gabriel ducked.  Instead of listening to him, Sif turned on her heel and swayed out of the room toward, Dean suspected, the self-replenishing beer fountain.

“And we’ve lost Sif,” Gabriel said mock sadly, swallowing the cheese whole. “Guess that leaves us with you, Dean. C’mon, we don’t bite.” Dean waited for the punch line, but it didn’t come. Hesitantly, he approached the table and settled across from Gabriel, who kicked his wheel underneath the table. “Don’t mind Sif. She’s the only barren goddess of fertility. Kinda takes the fun out of it.”

“Goddess of…?” Dean repeated, scrunching his eyebrows together. “What the hell’s going on here? Where did you take me?” Glancing at Thor, Dean added, “And why is he calling me tormentor?”

With a smirk, Gabriel tossed an apple at Dean. “All in good time, my little pretty.”

* * *

It was hours and three more unpleasant zap transports before Gabriel finally grew tired of entertaining various gods and goddesses. It took even longer for Thor to finally release Gabriel, something the thunder god vowed only to do if Gabriel swore he would text sometime before the next decade. It might have been dawn back in Kansas (only an approximation due to the fact that the windows in this place seemed to constantly sparkle with sunlight) by the time Gabriel finally zapped Dean up a flight of stairs and to a part of the stripper tavern that vaguely resembled an inn.

Half-asleep as Dean was, he could barely form a sentence let alone demand Gabriel answer his questions; besides, he was lying if he said he didn’t enjoy himself at least a little bit. The bed Gabriel maneuvered him into was soft and inviting and surprisingly quiet, seeing as the party downstairs had still been raging when they had left. It didn’t seem strange to him, however; surely angels had surpassed the need for soundproof flooring. In fact, most of his questions seemed inconsequential now - perhaps it was the lack of sleep or the strange but addicting mead Thor had kept shoving at him or a combination of both, but for the first time in a long time, he slept deeply.

* * *

 

The next morning, however, he wasn’t nearly as content.  

“ _Gabriel!_ ”

Not more than a second after the shout left Dean’s mouth, the archangel popped into existence instantly in the middle of the room, looking furious. Dean opened his mouth to speak but found he couldn’t make a sound. “Keep it down! D’ya want every friggin’ god in this place to know who I am?” he snapped.Dean clutched at his throat.

Rolling his eyes, Gabriel released his hold on Dean’s vocal cords. With a gasp, Dean managed to choke out, “They don’t _know_? But Thor--”

“Big guy figured it out a long time ago. For a big-haired meatsack, he’s actually pretty smart,” Gabriel said; then, sighing like this was causing him a great deal of personal pain, he flopped down onto the bed. “You done shouting?”

“How’s about I ask a few questions before I answer any of yours?” Dean suggested dryly, inching away from Gabriel. “Where’s my wheelchair?” It rolled toward him.  Once he was firmly situated in it and away from the archangel who was now lounging on his bed, he took a deep breath, overwhelmed with just how many questions he had.

“Any day now, kiddo.”

“Give me a minute!” Dean bit his lip. He then blurted out the first question that came to mind. “How come I can’t hear whatever’s going on downstairs?”

“Soundproof flooring.”

“Oh.”

“Is that it? Because--” Gabriel raised his hand, fingers poised for a snap.

“Don’t rush me,” Dean complained. “I’ve got tons more questions. Where the hell am I exactly?”

The window shades pulled back of their own accord. Dean turned to the window and squinted, white sunlight momentarily blinding him. The world outside the window was painted grey, green, and yellow; jagged rocks, tall grass, and wildflowers dappled the landscape.   

“You’re on a little island called Laeso,” the archangel clarified. “Well, ‘on it’ is relative. You’re more… above it.”

The blood rushed out of Dean’s face. “We’re not… flying, are we?” he asked tersely.

“If you call interdimensional travel flying, then yeah, we are.”

Dean let out a sigh of relief but almost immediately tensed back up when he processed exactly what Gabriel had said. “Hang on - interdimensional travel?” 

Gabriel smirked. “Welcome to Asgard, kiddo.”

Images of Chris Hemsworth floated across his mind, comparing themselves to the Thor from last night. “No friggin’ way.”

“Told you you’d be saying that a lot.”

Dean shook his head a little, taking a deep breath. “You Asgardians drink coffee?”

Gabriel smirked. A mug appeared in Dean’s hand. Shrugging, Dean took a sip. “Not that I’m not a little into being in the realm of the Norse gods and everything,” he began eventually, “but what’s an archangel doing here? Don’t you guys have your own freaky angelic strip bar?”   

Gabriel snorted quietly and shook his head a little. “You’d be better off trying to find a strip bar in the Vatican,” he snickered. “I ditched heaven a long time ago. Call this,” he gestured outside, “my own personal sanctuary.”

“Is that why they call you Loki here?”

Gabriel saluted him sarcastically. “God of Chaos, Mischief, and Fire at your service.”

Dean nodded appreciatively. Suddenly the association between Loki and heaven brought another question spinning to mind. “Does that have anything to do with why Thor knew me?” he asked. “Dean’s a great name, you know, but _Tormentor-_ now _that_ I could get used to,” he finished with a grin.

“It’s a long story,” Gabriel said dismissively, clearly not wanting to pursue the subject. Dean wasn’t about to give up that easily, however.

“Apparently I’ve got a long time,” he replied dryly.

Sighing, Gabriel readjusted himself on the bed before answering.  “Look - I’ve had prophets before, but… they break an arm, I fix it. You break an arm and I _feel_ it. And I’ve never heard a prophet’s prayers before they’ve even been activated. Not as clearly as yours.”

It took Gabriel three seconds to realise that he’d never told Dean. It took him another three seconds to look guilty.

“Before they were activated?” Dean repeated stiffly. “You mean you heard my prayers from when I was a kid?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

He looked down at the floor. “What do you remember?”

“All of them.” Even as he said it, a cold feeling settled in Gabriel’s stomach; the type you get when you’ve been dreading something, desperately praying for everyone to just forget about it, and then it still happens, despite all the lost sleep and crying and fucking that you tried to use to push it away yourself.

 _Hey_ , mused Gabriel to himself, _I bet that’s what Dean felt like._

Dean swirled his coffee around with a straw a little. “All of it,” he repeated. “Right…”

Without warning, he slammed the mug down on the counter. It shattered. “ _All of it?_ ” he spat. Gabriel winced. “You mean I spent 18 years praying for everything to be better and you just let it happen? You let them take Sammy away? You let my mom go bankrupt? _You let me lose my fucking legs?”_

The ice in his stomach abruptly turned to flame. Gabriel drew up to his full height. The lights flickered. “What, you think your play is the only tragedy God ever wrote? I _couldn’t_ help you when you were a kid, Dean, and right now, I am going _easy_ on you,” he growled, the sound deep in his throat. “Wanna know what I did when my last prophet refused to read?”

Dean’s gaze was challenging.

“I reached into his chest and stopped his heart. Four times.”

Dean scoffed. “You wouldn't. I hurt, you hurt, remember?”

The light stopped flickering and extinguished themselves completely. With a fleshy wheeze, Dean's lungs collapsed. He doubled over in his chair and for a brief moment, Gabriel watched as Dean struggled to breathe. Then he snapped his fingers and the light came back on, healing Dean in the process.

“Don’t be so quick to assume what I would or wouldn’t do,” Gabriel said coldly.

* * *

Gabriel didn’t return to Laeso for a while. Dean remained on the island, taken care of by the servants who were apparently used to humans being abandoned in one of the rooms (though he didn’t exactly appreciate being referred to as ‘concubine; he much preferred ‘tormentor’). Most of his days were spent watching the dirt road outside his window. He’d missed it the first time he looked outside as it was entirely unpopulated, a phenomenon that could have been attributed either to being a cold, icy island on a cold, icy sea or the vacation home of Norse gods. Either way, it was peaceful.

Small gifts turned up that Dean attributed to being in a magical place. First it was his favourite brand of beer, then a burger from his favourite restaurant. After a slice of what tasted suspiciously like his mother’s apple pie recipe appeared on the foot of his bed, he decided to ask one of the servants about it; but he just shook his heads and muttered what sounded like, “Gods and their concubines - wish I had a god” under his breath.

Slowly, the gifts began to increase in size. It went from apple pie to Stetson to television to DVD box set of Dr. Sexy, MD, until one misty morning a creature blacker than night rolled out of the tall grass onto the road, its windows fogged and body glittering mutely with dew.

The servants pointed him to the door and without bothering to say thank you, he disappeared through it. Standing on the road before him, her engine growling, was the Impala. When he climbed inside, he realised that nothing had changed; the army man in the ashtray, the rattling in the vents, the cardboard box that held his mom’s cassette tapes - all were there and all were untouched. It was as if he’d never sold her.

 _See my baby, tell hurry on home; I ain't had, Lord, my right mind, since my rider's been gone._ When he turned on the radio, his favourite song was playing. It was at that point that he knew that something of this size wasn’t mere magic but something else entirely. Suddenly the novelty began to wear off.

“You tuned in, Gabriel?”

“I'm your friggin’ archangel, Dean. As if I have a choice.” Dean didn’t move when Gabriel suddenly appeared in the passenger’s seat. Both of them were quiet, neither knowing quite what to say.

“So… you know about the Dr. Sexy thing?”

Gabriel snorted. “Every melodramatic moment.”

Dean exhaled. “Just don’t tell my brother, yeah?”

“You got it.”

For a minute, Dean thought it was over. The tension had subsided and the scene in the sitcom of his life should fade to a commercial break; Gabriel would crack a joke and Dean would laugh and they would parry with quips and perversions of increasing absurdity until Dean began to grow tired or hungry or had a headache. But after a pause, Gabriel spoke again, his voice softer.

“I can give you your legs back, y’know.”

Dean froze, eyes wide. Gabriel smirked; he looked so satisfied with himself. “Wow. Uh, fuck you.”

“Huh?”

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t need your fucking charity!” he bit out through clenched teeth.

“Charity?” Gabriel repeated, sounding both dumbstruck and hurt. Both tones were almost instantly masked  by irritation. “Trust me, hopscotch, this isn’t charity. I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Then why?” 

Gabriel faltered. “Convenience,” he shrugged.

Shock and anger hit Dean hard. “Convenience,” he repeated scathingly, looking away from Gabriel. “This,” he gestured to his wheelchair, “is convenient. So don’t feed me some bullshit about _convenience._ ”

Gabriel’s guilt turned to anger at Dean’s insolence and, unseen to Dean, his wings spread; but this time he stopped himself. After all, posturing hadn’t exactly worked out in his favour the last time he tried it. He took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually. “I want us to get along.”

 “Yeah, well, I don't want to be in debt,” Dean replied roughly.

Gabriel quirked his mouth to the side and furrowed his brow. “I wouldn't-”

“I don't know that. Why should I trust you?”

“I saved your friggin' life,” Gabriel reminded him incredulously.

“So?” Dean challenged. “You had to. Isn't that part of the deal? I cry, you cry, I break an arm, you break an arm. I don't want to be a _replacement_ for whatever you lost.”

“How do you know I'm missing something?” asked Gabriel.

“Takes one to know one.”

For a long time they sat in silence, Dean watching the rain and Gabriel watching Dean. It was only eleven o’clock but the misty grey sky made the world feel subdued. It darkened when the thunder started, breaking the unspoken pact of silence that falls over people in these situations; the type where any ripple in the still water was enough to start a chain reaction.

“We should go back,” said Dean.

“You’ll veer off the road and we’ll die.” Gabriel sounded childishly glum.

“You’ll just bring me back to life.”

Gabriel looked back out the window and didn’t respond.  

* * *

 

It seemed to Dean that Gabriel spending so much time on Laeso was an oddity. He noticed it in the way people began to grow uncomfortable, shooting him suspicious looks and patting their pockets after he’d left; everyone but Thor seemed perturbed that the God of Chaos and Mischief had taken a sudden interest in Dean. It didn’t make Dean a favourite resident either, but Dean had less to complain about; after all, he was only here temporarily, and for the most part, he spent his time holed up in his room or listening to his baby’s engine purr. It was comforting even if he couldn’t take her anywhere.

In general, Gabriel turned up three times a day - breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He never ate anything but he did bring Dean a few of his favourite things every time: burgers, pie, and porn. Two out of the three he always accepted; the other he rejected, but pretended not to notice when it turned up in strange places like under his pillow or hanging from the curtains.

In between eating and headaches, Dean found that, despite the archangelic superiority complex, Gabriel was fun to be around. On the outside, he was the spitting image of Dean, all tied up in carnal pleasures like sex and humour, but there were brief flashes of the man underneath the façade that Dean never missed. In a way, he reminded Dean of Sam; the little brother, someone who had the audacity to finally put his own wellbeing above his family’s only to be shunned for abandoning the people he still loved. Dean had come to terms with Sam’s reasons a long time ago and felt his fair share of guilt for the things he’d done, which was another reason why he understood Gabriel so well (though Gabriel would never admit it).

All in all, getting along with Gabriel was easy and at the best of times it was fun, just as it was one Tuesday when Gabriel came bearing not his usual gifts but candy - specifically, rainbow belts. They weren’t Dean’s favourites, but even he had to admit they were fun to play with.

“Hey!” Playing, in general, entailed stealing things from Gabriel, just as Dean stole the last belt from between his fingers. “Dick move, Winchester.”

Dean wiggled his eyebrows at him then proceeded to enjoy the rainbow belt more than was necessary. “You gonna do something about it?” he smirked, letting one end hang out of his mouth.

Gabriel twitched. Then he smirked. Before Dean could stop him, Gabriel knelt in front of him and grabbed the other end of the belt with his teeth. “Bet I could beat you at chicken.”  

“You’re gonna lose,” Dean mumbled, the corners of his mouth upturned.

Gabriel glanced down at the candy, gauging how much was left; when he looked back up, Dean’s eyes were only inches away. He almost choked.

“You’re the one that I wanted to find,” he blurted out.

“What?”

Gabriel pulled a face. “Come on, is classic rock all you listen to? Coldplay? Green Eyes?”

Dean glanced away, the threat of a smirk on his lips. “Cute,” he remarked sarcastically.

“Who, me?”  Gabriel grinned, but abruptly ceased when he almost lost his grip on the candy.

“Ve-e-ry Disney.” They froze as they heard Sif’s voice at the door. Neither of them let go of the belt; their eyes just flickered back and forth from Sif to each other. “So, which one of you is Tramp?” she asked conversationally, leaning against the doorframe.

Dean pulled a face and bit down, tearing his end away from Gabriel’s. Sif gave them an indistinguishable smile. “Don’t stop on my account,” she said, ducking back out the door.

Dean and Gabriel were quiet for a moment. Then:

“I’m definitely Tramp,” said Dean.

Gabriel scoffed. “You keep telling yourself that, big guy.”

* * *

 

Dean was in the middle of brushing his teeth when he heard a knock upon his door, causing him to freeze and stare at it dubiously. Gabriel wasn’t nearly polite enough to knock and the servants were always so timid about the act that the strong sound he’d just heard couldn’t have possibly come from one of them. The knock sounded again and Dean shook his head. It was probably just a servant having a midlife crisis or something. He rinsed out his mouth and went to the door.  

“I’m good, tha- _Mom_?” Mary was standing in the dark hallway. Dean gawked. “How are you-- _what_?” She surveyed the room behind him, making no indication that she had even heard him speak. “What’s wrong? Mom?”

When she moved forward, hand extended, Dean just barely recognized the two-fingered touch that Gabriel used shaped in her fingers before everything went black.  


	3. Act II - Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This bit is where the bulk of the warning 'graphic depictions of violence' comes in.

_“Angels are watching over you.”_

Dean laid in the blistering heat that touched every inch of his body; dry, burning, and constant. The wind roared and  brought sand that filleted his back with cuts and scrapes with it. He quickly registered that he was not wearing a shirt; he could feel the tiny indents in his skin where rocks and sticks had laid into his skin for hours. Even though his legs seemed to be covered, he quickly realised he was not wearing shoes. 

His eyes snapped open. His mother stared back at him, smiling. “That's what Mary used to tell you every night before she put you to sleep,” she said and he couldn't believe he could hear her over the wind until he realised that her lips weren't moving.

“Mom?” he croaked. 

“No. Better. An angel.”

Dumbly, Dean's mind went straight to Gabriel. But there was something different. This wasn't Gabriel any more than it was his mother. This was someone new. “Which one?”

“Michael.” 

* * *

 

When Dean awoke, he was warm, but no longer blistering. The air was still and his skin felt unscathed. His still sleepy mind assumed that wherever he was, he was safe to sleep for another five minutes, so he rolled over, sighing for the feel of soft sheets against his knees.

His vision flashed and his eyes snapped open. He ripped off the sheets; all ten of his toes stared back at him, very much attached to the rest of his body.  The air rushed out of his lungs and he drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around them.

Eventually, he released himself from his own chokehold and swung his legs off the bed. The rocky floor felt harsh under his feet and he could feel sand rubbing in between his toes. Slowly, he stood, swallowing the tightness in his throat that occurred when he found he could support himself. He couldn’t let himself be at the mercy of his emotions right now; right now, he needed to figure out where he was and how best to escape.

Sand surrounded him on all four sides. He was reminded of the sand people huts from Star Wars and vaguely wondered if this was another fantasy created by Gabriel - but something about this felt different. There were no doors - just a single circular window. Bright, hot light from it fell upon the only items in the room other than the bed - a desk, a chair, and a laptop. The charging light was lit even though there was no cord in sight.

He took a few shaky steps toward it when someone spoke from behind him. “You’re awake.” His heart rate rose but he remained steady, turning his head slightly only to see his mother standing next to his bed. Her arms were crossed, her face expressionless; not Mary, then. “Do you remember?” she asked when he made no indication that he wanted to speak.

“Remember what?” Dean asked shortly. “Where did you take me?”

Michael’s expression grew stony. Without waiting, she was before him, two fingers pressing to Dean’s forehead. An explosion of memories suddenly filled him; an aching in his chest as symbols were carved into him; a heavy feeling in his belly and a lightness in his head; being dragged over rock and through sand, being told to walk even when he didn’t believe he could; and finally, words. Sentences. Images that strung together to make paragraphs, a chapter, a novel, a series; a jumble of messages in his head that hadn’t been there before.

He sat down heavily.

“Why did you give me my legs back,” he asked after a while in a monotone.

“It was convenient,” answered Michael simply. The word rattled around in his head; it was the same word, but it felt different than when Gabriel used it. Now Dean was bound by obligation - he owed this angel something, a debt Dean was sure she was going to force him to repay.  He felt the air rush out of his lungs again, but this time it was not relief that he expressed, but burden.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked. Michael smiled.

_“Read.”_

* * *

 

A thousand miles away, Gabriel jerked awake, gasping for air. He quickly realised that it was not his vessel’s lungs that were being constricted, but his grace - the tether was tightening around it painfully, making his chest heavy.

“Dean? _Dean?”_ Panic brewed in his chest as he realised that his prophet was gone. He could see that the room was empty, but he could feel the empty spot in his head where everything about Dean was stored; his current mood, needs, and more importantly, location - all vanished. Someone must have warded Dean from angelic influence, and there were only a select few who could accomplish that. Even so, Gabriel knew at once who was behind it.

“Michael!” he snarled, but his abated as soon as it had come. Instead of wanting to rip Michael’s eyes off of his body one by one, he only felt an intense desire to sleep. This was a really bad time to be tired, he told himself, but his vessel’s eyes shut of their own accord. Briefly, panic filled his chest before it was snuffed out by a thick, heavy sleep.

When he opened his eyes, he was in a garden. Joshua stood above him, a hand extended. Gabriel pulled himself up with a flap of his wings, ignoring Joshua’s offer. “Why did you bring me here? I’m a _little_ busy!” he snarled.

“You are troubled,” Joshua stated. “I could feel you all the way in heaven.”

“Michael’s keeping me out!” snarled Gabriel. He was sure Joshua picked up on the note of desperation in his voice but he didn’t care. “Dean’s hurting, and I can’t--” The vision in all his many eyes flickered, throwing him off balance.

Joshua neared him cautiously, placing a hand on the end of one of his wings. Gabriel felt the rope around his neck loosen slightly, but it was enough for some of the pressure to release. His feathers rustled, heaving as he sighed.

“The tether is not a curse, Gabriel,” said Joshua.

“Says the guy who’s never felt one,” Gabriel retorted, but all the energy was gone from his voice.

“Perhaps Michael is only doing what he feels is best. Perhaps he feels you aren’t performing to his standards.”

“Hey, I'm playing my role! Protecting the prophet, right? Well, he's protected! Just let me do my job this time,” Gabriel said bitingly, directing the last sentence to no one in particular. Joshua hummed quietly, his small human vessel smiling, and for a while, he didn't respond.

“You're doing more than protecting him,” he said finally.

Gabriel opened his mouth, but before he could ask Joshua what the hell he meant, Eden was gone, replaced by the ceiling of Dean’s bedroom. He wasn’t sleepy anymore; he knew what he had to do.

* * *

 

Dean didn’t like the chair. He had no desire to sit in the same position he had been for such a long time. Thankfully, Michael didn’t question him when he kicked the chair away and sat cross-legged on the table top, computer on his lap and hot sun in his face. When the headaches came, Michael was there; when the headaches went away and three new pages blinked back at him from Microsoft Word, she was gone. Her presence was how Dean differentiated between the beginnings of visions and the ends of detox. Neither were pleasant; the only consolation he felt was the warmth of the laptop against his legs.

On the occasions Michael spoke to him, their conversations were short and brief. She seemed to care about Dean, but not enough to return him home. When he asked why, she’d simply tilted her head and told him, “You’ll be in danger there.”

“I’ll be… careful,” Dean had suggested, but he’d known that his efforts were for naught when her lips pursed.

“You drink, you barely sleep, you rarely eat, and you put yourself in unnecessary danger. You won’t be careful,” she’d said. That had been the end of the conversation; they’d never picked it up again. Still, Dean began to get the feeling that Michael wasn’t just taking care of him but was priming him - for what, he wasn’t sure, but he sure as hell didn’t want to find out.

His only escape plan was Gabriel and it seemed that whatever runes Michael had carved into his chest were keeping Gabriel out. Maybe some part of him liked the idea that Gabriel couldn’t poke around in his brain anymore, but a much larger part missed it out of pure necessity. If Gabriel knew where he was, surely he would come. He only needed to wait.

* * *

With each day that passed, the tether grew weaker and weaker; Gabriel couldn’t tell whether it was because of Michael’s wards or because what Michael was doing to Dean. He had a feeling it was a little of both.

It was a week before he finally found them - or rather, he found Michael’s grace. Pulsing gently in the desert, it was the only thing Gabriel could feel for miles that was hotter than the sun. He knew that if he was close enough to feel Michael, then Michael was close enough to feel him, but that didn’t stop him from tracking it like a compass, letting it lead him to the place he knew Michael must be holding Dean.

The hut was the only shelter for miles. Built by hand thousands of years ago, it stood modestly against a background of red and brown, each individual grain of sand glittering in the light of day. He recognised it as a holy place - somewhere biblically significant - but he didn’t care enough to try to determine exactly who had once lived there. His only goal was to get in, grab Dean, and get out, but he knew Michael wasn’t going to make that easy for him; not when the possession of Dean Winchester was at stake.

When he flew through the heavy sand walls, Dean didn’t notice him, and although the eyes on Michael’s vessel didn’t look at him, the eyes on her true form did. She sighed. Dean glanced around, freezing when he saw Gabriel.

“Hey, bro.”

“Gabriel,” Michael said slowly. “I wondered when you’d turn up.”

“Miss me?” Gabriel mocked. Though he spoke to Michael, as he said it, he glanced at Dean. Dean bit his lip.

“I assume you’re here to rescue Dean,” Michael continued. “No need. As you can see, he’s perfectly fine.”

Gabriel looked Dean up and down even if he didn’t need to. “I knew he’d be.”

“You can’t be here for a social call,” Michael said, the question clear in her voice.

“Come on, Mikey, it’s me.” Gabriel leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “I know you. You don’t care about some lowlife human prophet.”

“Hey!” objected Dean. The archangels ignored him.

“Still trying to blow up the world?”

“I’m not a lowl- what, now?”

Gabriel winked at Dean, an unspoken ‘I’ll explain later’ on his face. When he turned back to Michael, she was standing. “Father always said you were the smartest.” She strode toward him. “Prove him right,” she said in a low voice. “Come home. Abandon your false gods and fight once more for the glory of our Father.”

Gabriel remembered Michael’s flaming sword; he remembered training in the Garden, weak hands and wings guided by his brothers. He remembered the warmth he felt from their presence - it felt like home. Unseen to Dean, Michael’s wings reached towards Gabriel’s.

He pushed her away. “No.”

Michael narrowed her eyes. “What did you just say?”

“I said no, Michael,” Gabriel repeated, voice stronger. “You and Lucifer - you’re both wrong. Dad didn’t say ‘start the apocalypse’ before He left. His final orders weren’t orders for death and destruction - He told us to love the humans… love them more than we love Him, just as He did.”

Michael stared coldly at him. “No was the wrong answer, Gabriel.”

Gabriel didn’t have time to reach for his blade before a pain like nothing he’d ever felt before ripped through him. Something was being torn from his chest; his wings snapped as they clawed through his body toward Michael’s hand - and then he collapsed on the floor. 

His heart thumped in his chest. Gasping, he abruptly sat up, clutching at his shirt, a cotton/polyester blend. He felt it bother the hairs on his chest when he let it settle; it itched a little.

“ _What did you do?”_

“I gave you what you wanted,” said Michael dismissively, studying her hands with curiosity.

“This isn’t what I wanted!”

Michael paused and tilted her head. “Really?” she mused. “You weren’t making a very convincing argument for yourself, choosing _them_ over your brothers and sisters.”

Gabriel stood up on weak legs, the blood rushing to his head. He shook away the dark spots that dimpled his vision. Michael ignored him and turned around; Gabriel knew that to her, he was just another human now - another angel who had forsaken his family. He bit his lip and reached into his jacket pocket, fingers closing around the angel blade. He had been too afraid to use it before, but now he had little to lose.

The second the blade dragged across Michael’s throat, Gabriel was hurled backward. His body hit the wall with a thump. As he faded in and out of consciousness, all he felt were Dean’s hands on his arms trying to rouse him.

Still very much awake and kneeling beside a bleary-eyed Gabriel, Dean snarled at Michael without looking at her. “You didn’t need to do that!”  Michael did not respond. Blood boiling in his veins, Dean stood up and whipped around, ready to yell some more, but he stopped dead when he saw her.

“This vessel is damaged. I need a new one,” she rasped. Dean barely heard her words - all he saw was his mother, her throat torn and her hands bloody. “I can heal her, Dean; but I need your permission.”

“You…” Slowly, Dean put her words together. “You want me to be your new vessel?”

Michael gazed at him. “You only have to say yes.”

Dean swallowed. Mary’s shirt was almost completely soaked through with blood and it was spreading rapidly. “Yes,” he said quietly. “You can have me.”

For a brief moment, the wound in Mary’s throat glowed with a blinding white light. It stretched toward Dean until it was all he could feel, see, and hear - and then it was gone. Mary collapsed. Dean didn’t kneel down to pick her up or heal her. He straightened his shoulders and with an angelic ferocity, he spread his many wings. They fit perfectly against his back, like every atom of his body had been designed just for this; and he suddenly got the sense that it had been.

Unseen behind him, Gabriel began to blink away the pain in his head. His world trembled as he stood but he kept himself steady by concentrating on Dean, making a beeline for him. The archangel inside Dean sighed and turned back toward Gabriel, no doubt some preachy sentence about how Gabriel could never truly hurt him or Dean on the tip of his tongue, but the words never came out; Gabriel collapsed against Michael, driving the angel blade in his hand through his stomach. Blood, not his own, dripped into his palm. When Michael fell to the floor, the blade slipped wetly out of Gabriel’s hand.

He didn’t feel or see the light that was his brother bursting forth from Dean’s frail body. He was working on autopilot. When it subsided and the only light in Dean’s eyes was the type that was rapidly fading, Gabriel picked him up, slinging one of his arms around his shoulder, and half-dragged him outside into the dark desert night.

For five solid minutes he managed to walk before his human body couldn’t take it anymore. He fell to his knees, laying Dean down beside him. When they spoke, Gabriel’s throat was dry, but Dean’s was wet with blood.

“Thanks,” said Dean.

 “No problem.”

There was a brief silence.

“Hey. D’they have cars in heaven? Because driving with your hands is one thing, but with legs… I kind of miss it.” Dean laughed and the sound drilled into Gabriel's ears painfully. He was panicking; they were both panicking.

“Heaven’s heaven - it’s got girls, booze, porn, whatever tickles your fancy,” he said, talking just to keep talking. Noticing that Dean suddenly began to close his eyes, Gabriel shook him. “Hey, hey, stay with me, asshole. No way you're dying when I can't do anything about it.”

“I never listened to you before,” Dean slurred. “Why would I start now?”

Desperately, Gabriel pressed his fingers to Dean's forehead, like if he pressed hard enough he'd somehow fix everything like he’d been able to that morning. All he managed to do was leave a bloody fingerprint.

“Gabe?”

“Uh huh?”

“Does heaven have you?”

So this was it. This was when Dean died; when Gabriel's tether, severed out here in a biblical desert of glorified nothingness, came to an end. Gabriel would wait until the last light had left Dean's eyes and he would see the ghost of a human soul leave his body. He'd probably stare up into the sky even long after it had gone, maybe with a hand stretched out in front of him, or possibly covering Dean's mouth, like he could hold the life inside just a little while longer. He'd stay there for hours until someone finally located him and forced useless life back into his body. He wasn't sure what he'd do with the empty flesh lying on his lap. He wouldn’t close its eyes; they would already be bloodied beyond repair by the sand in the air. Gabriel’s would be, too, but he wouldn’t feel the pain.

But that's not what happened.

Instead, it began to rain.

It started slowly, like all thunderstorms. The drops tapped at his hands and dabbed at Dean's wounds as if cleansing or repairing. It wasn't a magic rain and the water boasted no healing properties, but the lightning that followed did. It crackled through the air dangerously around them, lighting up the storm-cloaked sky; then a single shard struck Gabriel low, erupting in his stomach and shooting branches of energy through his veins. He felt them squeeze and combust under his skin. Blood became fuel and oxygen became empty space. His heart stuttered to a stop.  

He felt like an archangel again.

It was then that he knew that the rain in the desert at the peak of the dry season was the handiwork of God: a miracle. It was a miracle that let him touch Dean's cheek and have it turn pink under his fingers; a miracle that let him push air into Dean's lungs and movement into his heart. It was a miracle that he was able to close his false wings around Dean's body and take him home.

* * *

 

Dean awoke swaddled in a tangle of blankets and clothes. Dim light bled through the curtains, swaying languidly in the wake of the air conditioner, as he fought the fog of sleep inside his head by stretching his arms and legs and taking a satisfyingly deep breath.

It wasn’t long before his memory began to return to him and he remembered just where he had been and began to recognise where he was now. He was lying in a pullout bed in his office in Kansas. Once he realised this, he awoke fully with a jerk, eyes wide as he looked around for-  

“Gabriel?” Something fell on the desk beside him with a thump.

“Mm, what… oh, you’re finally awake? Took you long enough,” said Gabriel snappishly after he peeled his cheek off of the wood of the desk. His elbow had dislodged the lamp, which was now reeling back and forth on its side.

“How’d I get here?” Dean asked, shaking his head slightly.

“Long story.”

Dean decided not to press. “How long’ve I been out?”

“Oh, a couple of hours,” Gabriel shrugged. Dean knew he was lying and gave him a hard look. “… and by a couple of hours, I mean nearly two days,” he finished.

“Being possessed by an archangel and then stabbed by his brother takes a lot out of a guy, I guess,” quipped Dean dully. “What happened after Michael possessed me?”

“Ah, you know, the usual. Brother turned against brother, brimstone fell from the sky, the earth opened up and swallowed cities - your typical apocalypse.”

Dean smiled but only slightly. “I’m serious.”

Gabriel sighed. “Well, that’s what woulda happened, if I hadn’t’ve...” He trailed off, swallowing.

Dean clenched and unclenched his jaw. “Is Michael…?” Gabriel nodded. “Oh.” There was a quiet pause; then Gabriel stood and walked over to the pull-out couch, sitting beside Dean.

“You feelin’ all right?” Gabriel asked softly. Dean gave him a tight smile.

“There’s still a little tension in my stomach where you, y’know, stabbed me, but other than that, never been better.”

Gabriel swallowed and then sighed, his hand reaching out and smoothing Dean’s hair back. Instinctively, Dean leaned away from the touch.

A tense quiet settled over them with Gabriel’s hand hovering, stationary, in the air. The quiet was contained to the room, and not to their heads, each filled with its own racing thoughts. Gabriel wondered if he’d crossed a line; if he should drop his hand and try to salvage their conversation. Dean wondered if he should let him.

Instead, Dean surprised himself as he tilted his head into Gabriel’s palm. Slowly, like he might scare Dean away or chicken out himself, Gabriel moved closer. “Dean…”

“Just… shut up and come here,” Dean muttered, patting the empty space next to him.

For a moment, Gabriel looked like he wanted to question him; but then his mouth closed and when Dean rolled over, Gabriel was there underneath the sheets.

“Gabriel, I…” But he didn’t have to say anything. Gabriel knew.

“Shut up.”

Wordlessly, Dean stared at him. “Mm-hmm.”  He scooted  closer to Gabriel, twisting his fingers into Gabriel’s shirt. If he pressed down, he could feel a heart beating, and if he tightened his grip, he felt his own pulse in his thumb, out of sync with Gabriel’s. When their eyes met, their hearts stilled; then Gabriel tilted his head forward and kissed him.

As abruptly as it began, it ended, Gabriel pulling away with a frown. “What, what?” Dean mumbled, tugging at Gabriel’s shirt. Gabriel quirked his mouth apologetically.

“Morning breath. You’ve got a bad case, big guy.”

Dean pulled a face. “I wasn’t gonna say anything but so do you.”

Smiling, Gabriel rolled off of the bed, taking the top layer of sheets with him. Dean groaned. “Come on, you’ve got legs, use ‘em.”

“Oh, ha ha, you’re a comic genius.”

“Well, I _am_ the God of Mischief.”

Dean reluctantly threw off the sheets and joined Gabriel in the bathroom. For a while he was entertained watching Gabriel try and figure out the finer mechanics of using mouthwash, but Gabriel’s words rattled around in his head.

After he demonstrated swirling and spitting, he touched on the subject. “You know… you’re just a regular dude now. No freaky angel jazz - just Gabriel.”

Gabriel scoffed. It might have meant to sound sarcastic but it came off as bitter. “Don’t sound so friggin’ disappointed.”

Dean’s eyes flickered up and down Gabriel’s face for a moment, studying him. “Look,” he began, sliding his arms around the other man’s waist. Gabriel tentatively rested his hands on top of Dean’s. “I know it seems… permanent. And it probably is. But if I know anything about anything, I know something about dealing with the permanent stuff. You can’t just start over. You’re gonna have to learn from your mistakes and sometimes deal with your old ones for the rest of your life.”

Gabriel didn’t respond, instead watching their arms in the mirror. 

 “Gabe?” Dean prompted.

He groaned, fingers tightening around Dean’s arms. “Let’s just go back to sleep,” he complained; and for once in his life, Dean listened to him. 


End file.
